


we're almost there

by retts



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: First Kiss, First Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pennywise is well and truly dead the first time, Piggyback Rides, Pining, Slight usage of slurs, Sprains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22939258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retts/pseuds/retts
Summary: Crouched like this, Richie is more or less level with Eddie, and it's easy to wind his arms around Richie's neck, push off on his good foot, and clamber onto his best friend's back. Richie's hands reach out for him, one broad palm clasping the back of his thigh and the other ending up higher —'Richie,' Eddie shrieks, 'that's not my leg!''Whoops!' Richie laughs nervously and shakes his deviant hand as if burnt.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 176





	we're almost there

**Author's Note:**

> yep, this is the first fic i wrote about them, oh, four months ago and it took for fucking ever to finish, it fought me tooth and nail, but here it is, in all its potentially cringe glory. 
> 
> i honestly don't know why it took me this many words to make them bloody kiss! a single kiss! my god, at this rate, writing porn will take 20k words! 
> 
> anyway, I hope you like it, eeeep. eddie and richie are so fun and frustrating to write gaaaah

  
One minute, Eddie is chasing after Richie because he's being an asshole as usual and the next he's face-planting into the grass with a litany of fucks falling from his lips. 'Fuck,' says Eddie again, breathless and dazed, tasting dirt on his tongue. His skin crawls and he spits it out, vigorously rubs his mouth with the back of his wrist as he gets up to his knees, only to collapse again when his right ankle throbs in serious protest.

' — Eds, Eddie, EDDIE!' Hands grab Eddie by the shoulders, shaking him until Eddie has to shove them away or risk more injury.

'Do not fucking touch me,' Eddie snaps on instinct. The flavours of grass and iron and countless bacteria still in his mouth. Eddie feels dizzy from his tumble, his ankle sending pain signals up to his brain, and suddenly there's a feeling like a cold sweat down his spine, distinctly separate from the ache and the surprise of falling, that makes him grab at Richie seconds after pushing him away. Eddie's said those words before, right? A long time ago, somewhere dark and damp, dirty, when Eddie was hurt, too. Too? When had he been injured as a kid? The memory refuses to reveal itself, shoved far back to make space for newer ones.

'Eddie, my love, look at me,' says Richie, his voice calling Eddie out of the quagmire, more penetrating out of all the worried voices calling his name.

Frowning, Eddie shakes his head and looks up to see six worried faces before focusing on the one that is sharper than the rest. 'What happened?' he asks Richie, baffled.

Richie's mouth is misshapen with worry, teeth deep into his bottom lip. 'You fell over, Eds. Did you trip over a pebble or your own feet, you clumsy clown?'

The word _clown_ makes Eddie flinch and there seems to be a metaphorical one going around the other Losers at the same time, an intangible thread of unease that pulls at them, strong enough that Stan goes, 'Beep, beep, Richie!'

Richie shrugs one shoulder, eyes still on Eddie. 'Eddie,' he says, 'are you OK?'

After a moment, Eddie nods hesitantly. 'Yeah, I think so.'

'He thinks he's OK, ladies and gentleman,' says Richie in his news anchor Voice. He nervously pushes his glasses up with his knuckle.

Scowling, Eddie lets him go again and pushes himself up with his palms. 'Fuck you, can you move away? You're crowding — _motherfucker!_ '

'Yep, that's me.' Richie sounds even more anxious despite the attempt at a joke, his hands automatically catching Eddie's elbows before Eddie could slip again. Another pair of arms steadies Eddie from behind.

Bev kneels down and inspects Eddie's foot. 'It looks a little swollen. Does it hurt a lot?'

Eddie's stomach clenches in panic and he makes a grab for Richie's forearm, uncaring if the skin under his hand is damp with sweat when usually he would complain about nasty body fluids. 'Please tell me it's not broken because it sure as fuck feels like it. Oh, God, my mom is going to kill me!'

'She'll probably break your other ankle so you'll have to stay home forever.'

The possibility plucks at some of Eddie's deepest nightmares and a hint of it must show on his face because Bill flicks Richie's ear in admonishment. Eddie gives Bill a grateful look. He takes deep breaths, thinks about maybe not needing his inhaler this time, and abruptly feels his chest tightening. Richie gives him a sharp-soft look (how does that even _work?_ ) and curls his palm over the back of Eddie's neck, holding him firmly.

'Eds, stay calm, alright? I won't let your mom lock you up, I promise. I'll break you out. We'll go on the run even if I have to carry you out of the house by myself. Give him some breathing room, guys.'

Eddie would snort if he could still breathe. As if Richie's not the one practically on Eddie's lap, face inches away from his. It's good, though. It helps Eddie focus, gaze on Richie, seeing the tightness at the corners of his eyes, magnified by his glasses, the flash of teeth on the corner of his lower lip, the sweat at his hairline. Richie leads and Eddie follows, matching their breathing until the panicky fog recedes and Eddie can feel the shape and size of the injury at the other end of him. He licks his lips, remembers kissing the ground, and nearly gags. Eddie perseveres and swallows down the nausea because Richie looks a second away from being sick himself.

Eddie licks his lips and gives his friends a tight smile. He gingerly tests his foot, putting some weight on it. It hurts but not as much as a broken one would, or so Eddie hopes. 'I really don't think it's broken,' he says as confidently as possible, ignoring the slight tremble to his voice. 'I can still stand.' Nonetheless, he leans into Richie's steady hold, almost like an embrace. 'I don't have ice with me. I need to follow RICE, you know.'

'No, I don't know,' says Richie.

'Richie, I already told you — '

'I'm teasing, Spaghetti. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. You've been drilling first aid stuff into my brain since we were, like, thirteen.'

Eddie musters a small smile. 'There really should be a D there for Doctor.'

'We'll take you,' Ben says, 'right now.'

'You need ice, right? The store's not too far from here.' Mike grabs Stan and tugs him along.

'What, are we going to buy a whole block of ice for one foot?' Stan argues but goes with him, flashing Eddie a reassuring look.

'Are you hurt anywhere else, Eddie?' asks Bev, her sweet eyebrows drawn together in concern. 'Your bottom lip is bleeding. Oh, there's one right under your chin, too. It doesn't look that bad, though.' This, she says mostly to Richie, from the flick of her eyes to the tilt of her head towards him, and Eddie notices it only vaguely, more concerned with the various aches and pains making themselves known now that he's more alert.

Then, he remembers.

'Shit, I didn't bring my kit,' says Eddie, horrified. He looks at Richie imploringly, as if Richie could produce Eddie's fanny pack out of thin air. 'Out of all the goddamn days I decide that I don't need the stupid thing.'

Richie's thumb traces the delicate shape of Eddie's ear. It tickles but it also feels good. 'It's going to be fine, Eds. We'll get you home and fix you right up.'

'My mom,' says Eddie in an even more horrified voice. 'Richie, my _mom_.'

Bev and Ben and Bill share a worried look.

Eddie can't look away from Richie. Still the same pinched eyes, stressed mouth, but now there's a resoluteness in the angles of his face that wasn't there before.

'Uh, the clubhouse, then. It's not too far away. Guys, can you go after Mike and get Eddie some more supplies? Like bandages, gauze, wet wipes.'

'Not wet wipes, I need antiseptic pads and, and sterile dressing.' Eddie licks his lips and grimaces from the lingering taste of his fall. 'And a toothbrush and toothpaste! God, my mouth tastes super gross.'

'Please,' Richie finishes for him with a fond smile.

'You got it, man,' says Ben, serious-faced as he ticks everything Eddie said on his fingers.

Embarrassed, Eddie fumbles for his wallet. Bill notices first and shakes his head. 'D-Don't worry about it, Eddie. We'll see you i-in a bit, yeah?'

Eddie flushes pink at this show of care and affection from his friends. He knows they love him, of course, but it's always different when it's tangible. He glances at Richie and finds him still checking Eddie over for more injuries, one hand cupping the back of Eddie's neck and other brushing errant leaves and dust from his shorts.

'Geez, you're a mess. This is new, Eds. Usually, I'm the mess.'

'You're going to tease me forever about this, aren't you?'

'Duh.'

'A little compassion would be nice, Tozier.'

'Dude, didn't you see I was nearly in tears? Like, real, actual tears of laughter.'

Eddie rolls his eyes but the cut on his lip twinges as he smiles.

Richie blinks and sighs, grinning. 'Come on, Baby K, let's get that foot elevated.'

Eddie hides a wince when he limps along with Richie supporting most of his weight. 'That is the worst nickname you've given me.'

'Aha, I knew you like the Spaghetti, Spaghetti!'

'Nope, I hate that, too. I hate everything.'

'You're too cute, my precious goblin. Hop on.'

'God, just call me by my na — Huh?' Eddie tugs on his fistful of Richie's floral shirt. 'What?'

Richie wags a finger at him. 'Do you think I don't notice you whimpering like a lady in distress? Hop on my back, I'll carry you.'

'I can walk!'

'Sure you can. Don't worry, Eds, I won't spill your secret desire to be carried on my back.'

'Richie, I can walk,' says Eddie flatly.

Richie sighs heavily and looks up at the sky. 'Lawd, have mercy,' he drawls, and then in a normal voice, 'you don't need to be in pain because I will carry you on my back, free of charge. Just think of the possible damage you're doing to your ankle if you put too much pressure on it.'

Eddie's mind conjures up the worst-case scenarios in a snap. His expression sags in distress and he can hear his mother telling him that the safest place in the world is inside their house, chained right next to her.

'OK,' Eddie whispers in terror.

Richie makes a face. 'That worked too well, huh?'

Eddie shoots him a dirty look. Sheepish, Richie turns around and shows Eddie his back, knees bent, hands beckoning him on. 'Up, up, baby.'

Crouched like this, Richie is more or less level with Eddie, and it's easy to wind his arms around Richie's neck, push off on his good foot, and clamber onto his best friend's back. Richie's hands reach out for him, one broad palm clasping the back of his thigh and the other ending up higher —

'Richie,' Eddie shrieks, 'that's not my leg!'

'Whoops!' Richie laughs nervously and shakes his deviant hand as if burnt.

Blushing furiously, Eddie tightens his arms around Richie's neck, all but strangling him. 'You dumbass!'

Richie makes a half choking, half laughing sound and takes a stumbling step backwards, nearly upending Eddie and himself until Eddie loosens his grip.

Wheezing, Richie says, 'Eds, you know that your kink is my kink but next time warn a guy before you choke 'em, alright?'

'It's your fault,' snaps Eddy.

'It was an accident! Although, I _have_ been dying to know if you also got your mama's as — '

'Richie!' Eddie yells again, this time directly into Richie's ear. The body under Eddie shudders and groans.

'Fuck, I think you burst my eardrums, man.'

'Let's just go, OK?' Eddie blows out an aggrieved breath and he drops his forehead on the back of Richie's head. 'Please, Rich.'

''K, Eds. Hang on tight to me, cowboy.'

The sun is up high burning as they leave the shade of the trees and cross the field. Richie is silent for once, focused on carrying Eddie and not tripping on jutting rocks and slippery grass. It gives Eddie the chance to really take stock of himself, inside and outside, chewing on his bottom lip as he lists the ankle injury, the cuts and scrapes on his knees, jaw, mouth and arms, triaging them as either non-urgent, urgent, or life-threatening. It's a system he's done every time he gets hurt, or someone else gets hurt, just so he's organised and knows what to do next. There should always be a next: a next step, a next solution, a next action or else Eddie will have to curl up in panic and fear as he spirals from everything that can and will go wrong, even though it's only a tiny problem, because there's no such thing as a tiny problem according to Sonia Kaspbrak who has spent the last seventeen years conditioning Eddie that the world is nothing but a wasteland of disease and he is wading in its filth without any protection. Eddie knows his mom is wrong, he's not the delicate little flower she wants him to be, fuck you very much, but it doesn't change the fact that Eddie could literally die of sepsis if he doesn't properly treat his cuts.

 _So, did I break my arm or what?_ Eddie asks himself. He knows, deep down, that something went wrong in 1989. The summertime memories are hazy; there were bicycles and quarries and ice creams and comic books, Richie pissing him off as usual and the Losers coming together, but the images feel superficial and the more Eddie tries to untangle the specifics out of those nebulous days, the more freaked out he becomes.

Eddie nudges Richie's jaw with his knuckles. 'Hey, do you remember if I broke my arm when I was, like, thirteen?'

'Why are you asking _me_ , dude?' asks Richie, slightly out of breath. He's got the height but Richie is all skin and bones, barely any muscle to brag about, a feral beast.

'Oh, I thought, well, never mind.' Eddie licks his lips, internally smacking himself on the face. For some reason, he has this idea that Richie would just know stuff about him. Ridiculous.

'Huh, now that you mention it, Eds Meatball Spaghetti, I can sort of remember that you did.'

'You don't sound so sure.'

'Yeah, I mean, like, it was so long ago and I can't really recall it properly but I'm 50%, no, 76.45% sure it did happen.'

'Right? Me, too! Is it weird that it happened to me but I'm just as confused about it as you are? Like, we — not just the two of us but all of the Losers have collective amnesia or something.'

Eddie feels Richie's hands tighten around his thighs and hears him let out a funny-sounding exhale. 'It's fine, Eddie. It happened, your arm got better, obviously, so let it go, and now you've broken your ankle. I'm sensing a pattern here, Young Padawan.'

'Fuck you, it's not broken. It's only sprained. Shit, it's actually not broken, right? No, it's not. Just a little twist. Anyway, what about you, asshole?'

'What about me?' Richie pants.

'You good? You sound like you're actually dying, carrying me like this.'

Richie's breath rattles as they climb up a small slope. 'No, I'm perfectly perfect, but thanks for your concern. I'm touched you care, Eds.'

'Don't flatter yourself, I'm only worried you might drop me.'

'Not on my watch, Eduardo.' Richie hitches Eddie higher and staggers only a little, grunting in surprise as he steadies himself with a foot out front.

'I can still walk,' Eddie says again, smiling faintly. He can see how red the tips of Richie's ears are, the ends of his hair sticking to his sweaty neck, the damp shirt sticking the same way to his back. Eddie's own sweat is making it so much worse. It should be gross, it _is_ gross, but Richie is doing this to save Eddie from a few minutes of painful hobbling, and even though he's gawky as fuck, Richie's back feels broad under him, capable of supporting Eddie's weight. There's a sliver of skin on the back of Richie's neck that is the perfect place to tuck his nose into. Somehow, Eddie knows how it'll smell; sweat, of course, Axe body spray, and a sharp woodsy aftershave, something familiar that Eddie's scented from his own bedsheets at home. Too many sleepovers.

Eddie's own ears feel hot. His heart is beating fast.

'Are you having a heatstroke, Eds? I can totally feel your heartbeat against my back. That's not normal, right?' There's a faint thread of concern in Richie's voice. 'You're not freaking out, are you?'

That's right, Eddie can blame it on the heat, the shock of his tumble, when he presses his face into the curls at the back of Richie's head. It's as disgusting as expected but Eddie only pushes his nose deeper into the strands.

Richie makes a strangled sound and his fingers dig into the meat of Eddie's thighs. His hands are damp with sweat, too, and hot, and rough. 'Eds — what — you — uh — that — gahhh!'

That last unintelligible noise is because Eddie just let out a sigh right into the sensitive skin of his neck (the area should be sensitive, because Eddie always has to suppress a shudder whenever Richie touches him there) that ruffles Richie's curls. God, maybe Eddie really is having a heatstroke.

'Hot,' mumbles Eddie, just to make it more believable.

'OK, fuck, hang on, man. I can see the clubhouse. Hold on tight, babe.'

Eddie hisses when Richie breaks out into a run that jostles him, bumps his banged up chin against Richie's collar.

'Ah shit, my glasses!' gasps Richie. 'Eds, a little help!'

Eddie blindly reaches up and gently smacks Richie's cheek but he catches the glasses before they fall, pinning them against Richie's jaw. He fumbles, one-handed, with them and only bumps Richie's nose once before he slides them back on. They reach the clubhouse and Richie's footsteps clatter down the wooden stairs and the coolness and the welcoming shade work just as well as a bucket of ice water. Eddie cringes away from Richie's pale neck, appalled at himself and how his heart still keeps pounding in his chest. He's hot and thirsty and in pain and he's obviously lost his mind. Did he hit his head after all?

'Thank fuck,' says Richie, full of feeling, his head bowed low, almost cringing away from his errant passenger.

Richie carefully falls to his knees beside the beat up mattress and helps Eddie lie down on it, all the time mindful of the wonky ankle. This level of concentrated vigilance is doing strange things to Eddie. Intellectually, Eddie knows Richie lavishes more attention on him than anyone else, even the other Losers, but it's a different matter altogether to acknowledge it in the overcharged state he's in, with his heart still racing and his cheeks still flushed and his mouth dry and his stomach swooping roller-coaster crazy. Eddie has been reacting to Richie Tozier since the moment they met — but not like this, not all at the same time, in this particular context that squeezes his ribs more than the scare of potential major injury does.

Richie, for his part, seems oblivious. He looks exhausted, falling on his ass with his arms perched on his drawn up knees, out of breath and out of shape. Richie grimaces and scrubs at his hair, shaking out the curls until they flop even more haphazardly than usual.

'Your stamina leaves a lot to be desired,' says Eddie, trying for normal.

'That's not what your mom says,' Richie retorts, tossing his ridiculous hair back from his face. He looks at Eddie with narrowed eyes. He moves up on his knees and undoes Eddie's shoelaces for him, removing his sneakers and dropping them on the floor. 'How are you doing?'

'Fine, fine.' Eddie carefully moves his right foot and makes a face when pain shoots up his calf that is separate from the persistent, throbbing ache. 'Shit, not that fine after all.'

Richie shoots up and looks around, reaching sideways to grab the pillow on the hammock, then goes back to Eddie's side and says, 'Come on, lift your leg but don't strain yourself.' Richie cups the underside of Eddie's knee and gingerly helps him raise it, slotting the pillow under. 'There, it's nice and elevated. Now all your blood's going back to your dick.'

This actually surprises a laugh out of Eddie, which he resents.

Richie claps his hands, looking delighted. 'Oooh, was that a giggle I heard? That sweet, high pitched sound from my little darling?'

He flips Richie off and orders, 'Get me a bottle of water.'

'I'm not your errand boy,' says Richie but he gets back up and goes over to the cooler, flipping it open and pulling out a bottle. It's dripping wet from swimming in the melted ice and Richie wipes it down with the bottom of his shirt.

'Dude, that's so unsanitary! I know where that shirts been!' Eddie yells.

'Beggars can't be losers,' says Richie uncaringly, swinging the bottle to toss it from across the room. Eddie fumbles to catch it but his hands grip nothing but air, the bottle still hanging from Richie's fingers.

Eddie blinks dumbly at him.

Richie bursts out laughing, an explosive sound that bends his body in half, hand slapping his thigh in time with his Ha Ha Has. _He looks ugly like that_ , Eddie thinks scathingly, watching the clenched eyes and open mouth and face scrunched with the force of his mirth.

 _No, he doesn't_ , an even more withering voice whispers in the back of his head.

'You're such an asshole,' grumbles Eddie, refusing to let himself show how fucking fond he is. 'Give me the water, Rich.'

Still giggling, Richie untwists the cap and hands him the bottle. Eddie snatches it from him and some of the water sloshes out the top and drips on Eddie's shorts, making Richie snicker harder. Eddie gives him a growling glare and Richie holds both his hands up and mimes zipping his mouth, locking it and swallowing the key.

'I hope you choke,' says Eddie viciously. His eyes go round. ' _Shit_.'

Richie smiles sweetly. 'God, you really do make it too easy sometimes, don't you? Tell you what, Eddie Spaghetti, I won't take the bait even though it pains me deeply.'

'What do you want in return?' Eddie asks warily, following Richie with his gaze as he saunters closer, toeing his muddy sneakers off on the way, and climbs on the mattress next to him. Richie sits down and tucks his sharp elbows and knees close to his body. The air in their underground hideaway is warm and slightly soupy, slicking the skin on Eddie's neck and arms. Richie stays close, like always, less than an arms length away, and a distant part of Eddie's brain thinks that distance has been shrinking steadily. Eddie should put up more of a fight. In the beginning, he did, when Richie tentatively curled their fingers together and softly asked if he could kiss Eddie. In answer, Eddie punched him, kicked him out of his bedroom, and locked his window for a week. It was last year, in the middle of summer, and Eddie stayed home for days, his fear of his mother outweighed by his fear of his own thundering heart when Richie touched his hand, reaching for the sliver inside Eddie that wanted to say yes. One by one, his friends called and invited him to the quarry (Ben and Stan), to the clubhouse (Mike), to the diner (Bev), to the arcade (Stan). Richie never called and they never mentioned him, but Eddie could hear Richie in every one of their invitations. Eddie said no to the quarry, to the clubhouse, to the diner, and to the arcade, but a week after it happened Eddie unlocked his window and pretended not to notice when an hour later Richie climbed back into his bedroom. Eddie's hand still itched in the spaces where Richie's fingers slotted with his. Richie didn't say anything about what happened and Eddie didn't say anything, either, and everything went back to normal.

Except now there are moments when Eddie expects Richie to make a joking reference about that night, bargain his way to get the kiss that Eddie denied him last year. For Richie to call Eddie out on his cowardice.

'What I want...' says Richie thoughtfully as he sits facing Eddie, his left knee perilously close to touching Eddie's bare thigh, the hem of his shorts bunched up and folded with the way his legs are stretched out. Richie makes a considering noise as his finger inserts into the crease of Eddie's shorts, a slight pressure Eddie feels through the fabric, and straightens it to cover an inch more of his leg. It takes a long minute for Richie to finish his words. An eternity, similar to the way that week from last summer felt without Richie constantly bothering him.

In that eternity, Eddie takes a good look at Richie, seventeen years old, all arms and legs, but with growing shoulders, too, his clavicles sticking out thin and sharp from his collar. His neck is thinner and longer, and his jaw is even sharper, but the cuts of his cheekbones operate on a different level, framing a nose that doesn't look quite as big as it did at thirteen, though the eyes are the same, round and magnified, and Eddie takes comfort in the familiarity, in the sameness of the freckles still sprinkled on his nose, the wild hair still springing from his head.

 _When did Richie start looking like this?_ Eddie thinks surly, aware of his own face changing into something less attractive and more stressed. A miser at seventeen. _Fuck, Richie's gorgeous. How?_

Richie blinks, and Eddie blinks half a second later, surprised to feel the slight burn and wetness in his eyes from staring too long.

'What I want is for your ankle to get better,' says Richie, smirking, 'so I can push you over the cliff when we go swimming tomorrow without any hesitation.'

Eddie belatedly takes a long drink of water to hide his disappointment and pretends it's only thirst he feels. There's half left when he swallows, and the image of Richie's red ears and sweaty nape flash in his mind. Richie tugs at his collar and flaps his shirt, swiping at his damp forehead with the inside of his arm.

 _Damn it_. 'Here, before you die of dehydration,' Eddie mumbles and holds out the plastic bottle.

Richie looks delighted and takes it from him. Instead of tipping it in the air like a normal person would, Richie's chapped lips close directly over the side of the rim that Eddie drank from and a frisson of something inappropriate stabs Eddie in the chest. It's from the grossness of it all, nothing more. Richie's eye catches his and Eddie's hands clench and he internally braces himself when Richie stops drinking and pulls the bottle away. This is it, he'll finally say something after all this goddamn time —

'Thanks, Eds, I was fucking parched. You don't need the rest of it, though?' says Richie, unexpectedly sincere, dimple winking on the corners of his smile.

Eddie swallows, suddenly needing an additional litre of water for his dry mouth. 'I wouldn't have given it to you otherwise, idiot.'

'Oh, right.' Richie crushes the plastic in his fist and throws it across the room. It bounces once and settles with the other trash accumulating on the floor.

'Richie,' sighs Eddie, touching his weary forehead with his fingertips.

Richie grins wider, tilting his head to the side in mock innocence. 'Hmm?'

'God, never mind. Is it too much to ask to keep this place clean?' Eddie mutters to himself. He runs his fingers through his hair and then smoothes it down, gusting deeply from his chest. His ankle throbs steadily, an ache under his skin that makes Eddie chew on his bottom lip. He startles when Richie pokes him on the cheek.

'You're going to reopen that cut, Eds, and it'll bleed again, and then we'll both end up crying at the sight of blood.'

Eddie releases his lower lip and scoffs. 'You get into fights every other week, Richie. See, you've still got that bruise on your elbow. Who's scared of blood?'

Richie shakes his head and lowers his gaze to Eddie's lips, reaching out with a knuckle to brush the side of the scrape on Eddie's jaw. 'I am when it's yours, Eddie Spaghetti.'

The blood they're talking about, all of it, seems to rush up to Eddie's face, even as his heart trips from the lack of it. Eddie clears his throat and swats Richie's hand away. 'You worry about yourself, Trashmouth. I'm not the one with a death wish.'

Richie doesn't fall back as expected, scooting closer and down until he's beside Eddie's elevated foot. 'I don't have a death wish. I just hate it when people talk shit about my friends.'

'You talk shit all the time, Richie.'

'Not about you guys!'

'Yes, you do!'

'I've got special permission, though.'

'From who? I've been telling you to stop — beep beep, Richie, that hurts!' Eddie yells, flinching at the sudden pain on his ankle.

Richie yanks his hand back, expression crumbling. 'Fuck! I'm sorry, Eds, sorry, sorry!' He pushes on his hands and back-crawls away from Eddie. 'Did that hurt a lot? I'm really, really sorry.' He literally looks sick with guilt, as if any moment he'll vomit regret, eyebrows and mouth twisted, pale-cheeked. It makes Eddie's throat tighten, his heart trying to squeeze out of his larynx, because Eddie hates the way Richie looks like he hates himself. It's the same fury Eddie feels whenever Richie shows up with fresh scrapes and bruises, showing a bloody grin and acting proud that he's defended his friends in a fight none of the Losers want him to be a part of in the first place because they only want to keep Richie safe.

And the thing is, Eddie overreacts. It's behaviour he's learnt from his mom, who wails and sobs and creates drama to make Eddie crumble under her ruling thrumb. Eddie knows this and he tries to temper his reactions, to temper his temper, especially when Richie doesn't deserve it (sometimes Richie does deserve it, though, because Richie can be an asshole). The touch didn't even hurt so much as startle him, hyper-vigilant and extra, _extra_ jumpy because of it. He takes a deep, calming breath and holds up a hand, like pacifying a skittish animal. Usually this is done to him, although Eddie is more feral than nervous.

'It's fine, Rich,' he says, unsticking his tongue and swallowing his heart back into place, freeing up his throat. 'It didn't hurt that much, really. I — I was surprised. We both fucked up. Hey, come on, if you throw up I'm going to get mad.'

Richie stares at Eddie's outstretched hand, now the one abusing his bottom lip. He tentatively reaches out and touches their fingertips together, then visibly hesitates. Sparks seem to light up and race down Eddie's arm.

'Sorry, Eds,' says Richie again, painfully earnest.

'I'm not mad,' says Eddie, 'just don't touch it again, idiot.'

'Promise,' says Richie gravely and then he sort of tips forward and bypasses Eddie's hand and wraps his arms around Eddie, hugging him sideways.

As an unspoken rule, they don't hug. They touch a lot, they scuffle, they rub and pull each other's hair, Richie uses Eddie as a pillow or something to lean against, but they don't hug. It's too close, too soft, a cousin to clasping their hands together and asking for a kiss. Like any rule, however, there's an exception: when it's deep into the night and one of them wakes up in a cold sweat, sometimes in tears, the nightmare of yellow eyes and sharp teeth still clamped around their subconscious. Then, it's alright to burrow into Richie's arms, or hold Richie in his.

It's the same doing this in the daylight, the weight of Richie around him, the smell of his cologne mixed with sweat, the fluff of his hair tickling Eddie's ear and cheek and jaw. And yet it's also _different_ without the anxiety and terror, able to really focus on the weight of Richie around him, smell his cologne, the fluff of his hair. Despairingly, Eddie realises his heart rate still skyrockets, his palms still grow sweaty, his body still shivers. The same reactions but coming from different emotions. They must mean _something_.

Feeling awkward but also like he never wants to move, Eddie ends up patting Richie's head, which turns into straight up petting his floofy hair. Then, Eddie slowly curls his arm around Richie's shoulder and places his head on top of Richie's. He breathes in deeply, lets it out softly, and closes his eyes.

'You scared the shit out of me, you know that?' Richie mumbles sullenly.

'I only tripped, doofus.'

'Yeah, and you made a big show about it. Doesn't matter. It still scared me. I dunno, Eds. It reminded me of something, you falling, even though the ground was there to catch you.'

Eddie's left arm twitches. 'We get hurt all the time.'

'We do, don't we? Since we were kids. It's fucked up. Sometimes I just remember you screaming.'

'I'm always screaming,' Eddie jokes, a lump in his throat.

'If you ever stop screaming, Eds, that's when I know something is really wrong.'

Eddie doesn't know what to say to that. It sounds strangely ominous. He keeps sifting his fingers through Richie's hair.

Richie burrows closer until Eddie feels the tip of his nose brush against his neck. Goosebumps prickle down Eddie's arms. Two impulses war inside him: push away or pull closer. His fingers curl into a fist, trapping some of the soft strands. He shifts, uncertain, and Richie tightens his arms around him just a fraction, enough for Eddie to feel it, for a pang to go through Eddie's chest. Richie isn't letting go. Richie is moving even _closer_ , his breath warming Eddie's neck. So close that Eddie can almost feel the shape of Richie's lips. Eddie's skin tightens over his bones, pulling in, too sensitive, his clenched stomach quivering. Eddie's gaze is fixed on the motorcycle poster across the wall without seeing it. He hasn't blinked in forever, his eyes gritty at the corners.

'Eds,' Richie murmurs, and fuck, the movement of his lips is nearly tangible. Eddie sees it in his mind's eye, only half a second out of sync, the Richie's full lips form that one stupid syllable scant inches from his neck. 

One of Richie's hands snake up into his hair, his palm sliding over Eddie's ear. His other arm falls lower, winding around Eddie's waist, his too-big palm slowly, carefully settling over Eddie's contracted belly. Eddie hears his blood rushing in his ears, feels every pulse point pounding, especially the jugular, leaping under Richie's mouth.

'Eds,' Richie sighs this time, the longing clear and sharp in his low voice, making Eddie bite the inside of his cheek. 'Can I kiss you? Please?'

Richie said please last time, too.

Instead of tensing and locking up every part of his body, including his heart, Eddie softens this time. In the heat, he melts. He tips his head ever so slightly until he feels Richie's lips brush his neck. It takes a second, then another, and another, before Richie reacts, and when he does, he presses a kiss above the first one, one more kiss on top of that, one more kiss over that; a trail of soft lips going up and sideways on Eddie's neck until Richie stops an inch away from the corner of Eddie's mouth.

It's up to Eddie. Of course. He knows there's no turning back after this. The fear niggles at the space between his ribs, expands. What will his mom think —

Eddie squashes the fear like a bug. His mom has got nothing to do with this. It's between Eddie and Richie, no one else.

Eddie turns towards Richie, his hand lowering to grab his sleeve, and he opens his mouth a little as it meets Richie dead on. His heart goes crazy but his mind quiets. _Oh_ , is the only thing he can think, wonder and just a tiny jab of panic making his palms sweat. Richie breathes out on his mouth, shaky and soft. Eddie's bottom lip trembles and his fingers tighten on Richie's sleeve.

It feels —

It feels —

It feels dry, Richie's lips slightly chapped, and there's a rough patch of skin on the corner of his mouth, that one spot he frequently bites and sucks on. It feels warm, and Eddie's face burns just as much. It feels new, a touch that he's never experienced before, aside from an acutely embarrassing but brief three minutes of trying to French kiss his elbow to see what it was like. Eddie is fairly certain Richie doesn't know, either. Richie hasn't kissed anyone else, or he would have told the Losers before, loudly bragging about being the school's Casanova. Probably. The possibility that Richie's kissed other people ignites a different heat in Eddie's chest and spurs him to open his mouth a fraction, and the feel of Richie's rough lips moving against his own changes _everything_. It's another brand new sensation to savour. Eddie shivers and closes his mouth and opens it — like a fish gulping water (it's the only analogy that comes to his brain) — and Richie does the same, just as slowly, just as tentatively, and it's so much better. Richie holds Eddie's face in both hands, his palms tightly cupping his ears, tilting his chin up and sideways, and the kiss deepens. Eddie feels Richie pushing into him, breathing on him, hears the soft sounds Richie makes low in his throat. The mattress dips and Eddie opens his eyes — when did he close them? — to watch Richie scramble up on his knees, eyes wide and dark, cheeks red, lips red, hands trembling as they hold Eddie again and bring their faces close again. They kiss again, mouths open from the get go, and Richie's tongue darts out and laps at the dip on Eddie's top lip. It makes the kiss slick, makes it easier to slant their lips, makes it easier for Richie to lick at Eddie.

Eddie moans, a loud sound that surprises both of them. Richie breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads together, breathing heavily. It's over too soon but at the same time it must have lasted for a while to make Eddie equally breathless, clutching desperately at Richie's arm. Richie's glasses dig into Eddie's forehead and the top of his cheeks.

'Oh, shit,' Richie says, gasping in air, but he still drops one more quick kiss on Eddie's mouth. Two. Three. Four. 'Eddie, _fuck_.'

Eddie huffs out a wheezy laugh. 'Oh, so you do know my name!'

'Of course I do, Eddie Spaghetti. It's the most beautiful name in the world.'

Eddie rolls his eyes, but before he can say anything, a painful spams shoots up his back. Wincing, Eddie turns away from Richie, straightening his spine and lowering his arms down to his sides.

'Does it hurt?' Richie asks, voice warm with concern, and his fingers dig into the sore muscles of Eddie's lower back. Richie puts some distance between but not too much, enough that the hazy cloud lifts and Eddie can think better without Richie there right in his face. His mind starts going a mile a minute. Eddie kissed Richie. Richie kissed him. They kissed each other. And Eddie wants more. The thought of sliding into Richie's lap and kissing him with tongue makes Eddie's insides squirm. There must be something seriously wrong with him because he doesn't even care that he let someone else's gross mouth touch his. 

(He does mind, a little bit, he's going to brush his mouth more thoroughly from now on. The amount of _bacteria_.)

'Eds, I can hear your brain working from here,' says Richie, gently teasing, but also with a hint of a question in his voice.

What does this mean for them?

Eddie doesn't know. The things they want to do — the things they want to _be_ — are dangerous, especially in this town. Derry is a cruel place. Eddie, kissing a boy? His male best friend? Fuck, that's messed up. That's the kind of shit that gets people beat up or even killed. His mother is going to be furious. Eddie can't even imagine what she'll do if she founds out. The sensible thing, the right thing to do is stop. Call their kiss a fluke and go back to the status quo. It'll be alright. Eddie and Richie's friendship is stronger than one mistake. They've survived worst. Right now, for the life of him, Eddie can't remember what the worst actually is but he's sure that they won. Eddie can prevail over this, too. He'll make sure of it.

Eddie's almost convinced himself until he feels Richie slipping his hand into his, fingers threading together until they are fixed, immovable. Richie moves to kneel in front of him, careful not to disturb his injury. Slowly, Eddie looks up and meet Richie's eyes.

Richie looks vibrant in the light streaming in from the gaps on the ceiling, his hair in disarray and his lips soft and plush, his cheeks rosy with colour. Richie's glasses dip down his nose and he pushes it back up with the tip of his finger, which he then lowers to scratch at the tip of his nose.

'Eds, I know you're freaking out,' says Richie slowly, choosing his words like he rarely does, 'and honestly, I'm freaking out, too. I think I've wanted to kiss you since I was thirteen. So, I have four years of pining to catch up on. I'm ready to beg, look, I'm already on my knees. I can grovel, if you want. Let's not think about anything, we can do that later. Fuck it, fuck everything. It's just us, right?' Richie squeezes his hand and licks his lips, throat moving in a hard swallow. 'Please, Eddie Spaghetti.'

Eddie is starting to think the please is what gets him. Richie probably knows that, too. He's such an asshole that using it becomes a big deal. Or maybe it's just Richie, and the please is frosting on the cake. Like the way he fits their hands together. Or the softness in his eyes — has that always been there? Eddie thinks so, and it warms him inside as much as it rattles him. Eddie can't make his own gaze to be sweet but he kissed sweetly, didn't he?

Eddie's still torn but he decides, anyway. He once did something very brave. He can do it again. He wriggles his hand until their fingers fit even better and tugs on Richie's arm. A wide, wide, wide grin bursts on Richie's face, showing too many teeth and a slice of his gums, and he looks ugly again, like when he laughed too hard, but he also looks unfairly beautiful, and Eddie sighs in defeat that feels very much like the first step to victory and kisses the stupid smile off of Richie's face.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is looooove
> 
> (lmao and i do realise that the other losers never came back but they do, eventually, and eddie and richie try to look like they haven't been making it)


End file.
